The sun likes to fall yellow here. In some parts of the world, she falls red, and in others, blue through her filter of the moon.
Yellow against the soft skin of a mother, head tilted back in thought, and the child chasing his toy into the road. Yellow and soft. When the mother hears the horns of passing cars she tilts her head to the sound and jogs to her child. Scooping him up into the air and squeezing him tight with a sudden gush of love. The sun falls yellow onto passing cars.
Ms.Nightole, yeah, the teacher, reclined on a park bench while one of her brats, or maybe he was too young to be a student, played on the curb. She tapped her pencil how she does against her thigh with a rapping series of tiny, dull thuds. Ba-da-ba-da-ba-da-ba-da. Ms.Abigail is always thinking. No one much likes her for it. Not even her husband, if Mary-the-eavesdropper is to be believed. She can usually be believed if you promise not to say she told you. Oh. Oops.
Abigail feels the strain on her neck, familiar, the one that she gets when she loses herself to another of her bouts and nearly tilts her chair to falling with how far she leans. The park bench, at least, is sturdy. Maybe she's forgetting something, she always is.
"He's leaving. Of course. You knew it was gonna happen, Aby, you fool." Abigail doesn't kick herself, not on the outside, at least. She squints hard and then tilts her head up in an attempt to get her eyes out the sun, pressing on her like it had nothing better to do. "Oh, you're in trouble now. Can't live on a school teacher's salary, not in any way that means the baby will get a good education, and a good bed to sleep in."
She goes to bite her nails but they're already nibbled down to the painful bits. Aby's head snaps around when she hears someone lay on the horn-like it's their bed after a long day. Her feet are moving, skimming the bench and giving her a splinter on the exposed calf, before she even realizes Charlie's in the street. She scoops him up, and to hell with his dump truck toy that gets crushed under the fat, smelly tires, and the screeching brakes. He's crying in her arms, sensing her built-up-fear like babies always do. He's been sniffling since she found the divorce papers in the sock drawer.
"I'm no heroine." She thinks, burying her face into Charlies for a kiss, grateful she washed his hair with the good shampoo, "I don't need no dark and handsome Mr.Nightole. No lawyer, who's suing me anyways? A teacher's salary works just fine, thank you." The sun glints yellow off a passing car.